“Oh, Emma, I’m sorry I was so cross with you.” Bustling toward the bed, Holly hugged her sibling, then smoothed the girl’s tresses away from her tear-soaked cheeks. “I am not myself.”
Her sister managed a crooked smile. “We make an unhappy pair, don’t we?”
“Yes, most unhappy.” Tears also pooled in Holly’s eyes. “I had hoped things would be different. After losing Mama and Papa . . . Well, we mustn’t dwell on the past.”
“And the future?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what the future holds, my dear.”
She hoped the Hawkins family would remain kind to her and Emma, despite the estrangement between Holly and their brother. If not, there was still the cottage on the outskirts of London. She and Emma could always retire there, especially if word ever spread of her sister’s “transgression.”
Emma nodded. “We have each other.”
“Yes, we do.” She smiled. “And we will always have each other.” A pause, then, “Emma, I must know the truth. Who hurt you?”
Since the girl had regained much of her strength, Holly felt it time to broach the uncomfortable matter—though she waited with baited breath to hear the villain’s identity.
“You must tell me, Emma.”
“I know.” She averted her eyes. “What will happen to him?”
At the obvious concern in her sister’s voice, Holly’s hackles spiked. The cur had seduced an innocent maiden and she worried for him? His wicked trickery had beguiled the poor dear, indeed.
“Do not trouble yourself with that, Emma. Tell me his name.”
After a few thoughtful moments, she heaved a breath. “Bobbie.”
Bobbie? Bobbie? Holly searched her memory. When had she encountered a Bobbie?
“Wait,” said Holly. “Bobbie? As in Robert? Our old farm boy?”
Again Emma nodded.
Holly lifted to her feet, her mind a whirl. “I-I don’t understand. Is Robert in Town?”
“No,” said Emma, curling her arms around her raised knees. “I—we were together the night before you and I moved to London.”
Holly dropped her head and groaned.
“A-are you angry, Holly?”
Aye, she was angry. Angry at herself. She had failed to recognize an attachment had formed between Emma and Robert. The farm lad had worked at the cottage for many years. He was Emma’s age. And the girl had so few friends, isolated in the country as she was. Of course she’d developed a bond with the boy. Holly should have paid closer attention to the two, but she had considered them children, innocent of the greater world and its earthly desires. She couldn’t even rally her rage against Robert, a mere boy.
Holly plopped back on the bed and sighed. “I am not angry, dear. I should have warned you . . . talked to you about matters of love and marriage.”
Emma’s cheeks glowed bright. “I’m sorry, Holly.”
“It’s all right, love.”
“What will happen to Bobbie?”
“I don’t know.”
What to do? thought Holly. Should she contact Robert’s father and demand his son marry Emma? What about Emma’s future in London? Her opportunity to meet and marry a gentleman?
“Do you still care for Robert?”
Emma lowered her lashes. “I love him.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t think you would approve.”
“Well, I suppose I would not have approved. You are a viscount’s daughter. You deserve to marry a gentleman.”
“I’m not too fond of the gentlemen in society. I was excited to meet them at first. But . . . They are not like Bobbie.”
“And what is ‘Bobbie’ like?”
“He makes me laugh. He teaches me about the land. He looks at me like I’m a princess.” Her voice dropped. “I miss him.”
Holly sighed again. She considered forbidding the couple from ever seeing one another again, but since her own marriage had unfolded so poorly, the rigid restriction seemed unjust.
“I will make you a compromise, Emma.”
The girl lifted her anxious eyes.
“In two years time, if you and Robert are still in love, I will not prevent your courtship.”
Emma opened her mouth.
“But,” stressed Holly, “you must make every effort to meet the gentlemen in society, to truly learn and know the desires of your heart. I want you to be happy, Emma.”
The girl simpered. “Thank you, Holly.”
She released yet another disgruntled sigh. “And why didn’t you tell me you were pregnant, Emma?”
“I thought you would disown me . . . like you disowned Papa.”
“What? I—I never disowned Papa.”
“I heard you in the study, Holly. The night before he died.”
Holly remembered that terrible night, and her heart pounded . . .
“Stop, Papa! Stop this instance!”
Her father lifted his defeated head. “I cannot stop, Holly. Not until I’ve restored everything that I’ve lost.”
“If you do not stop now we will all perish.”
“Holly, trust me. I will make things right.”
“No,” she cried. “I do not trust you anymore, Papa.”
“Holly—”
“If you do not stop now, then you are not my Papa!”
A knot formed in Holly’s throat, making it hard to breathe. Had she really disowned her father with those last words? She was angry with him, true. But . . .
Holly tasted the salty tears as they stained her cheeks and lips. She remembered the look in her father’s eyes when he’d heard she’d lost her faith in him. Hope had died. And he had died soon after, placing a pistol to his head.
A sob ripped from the bowel of her belly. “Oh, my God!”
“What is it, Holly? What’s the matter?’
“I—I killed Papa.”
Emma paled. “You. Shot. Him?”
“No!” She gasped. “I broke his heart, and he . . . and he died because of me.”
Overwhelmed by crippling spasms of guilt, Holly bolted from the room. She charged into her bedchamber and secured the door. Alone inside, she paced the floor, her palms covering her trembling mouth.
What had she done? She had pushed her father, already a broken man, into deeper despair. She had taken away his hope.
Holly, trust me. I will make things right.
But she had not trusted him. Not anymore. She had denied him.
You are not my Papa!
He was gone the next morning.
Holly collapsed on the bed, sobbing.
CHAPTER 18
Quincy sat on the bed, staring at the opium capsules in his hand. Something pressed on his mind, urging him to swallow the entire batch.
Since moving aboard the Nemesis, he had grown wearier. He desired rest. Real rest. After two years of near constant battle, he was tired of fighting the shadows he now knew would never leave him in peace.
He shut his eyes, evoking the memory of a warm, white light—and Holly. He remembered the vision he’d had a week ago, when he’d stopped breathing, of fiery tresses spilling over him, pierced by brilliant light, of leaf green eyes shining with warmth, of a smile—a smile that chased away every shadow.
Slowly he opened his eyes. In the dark cabin, he yearned to return to that moment. He would only ever find it in sleep. He knew he would never share real intimacy with Holly, not after she’d learned he was an opium fiend.
Quincy had tried to hide the truth from her, from himself. But there wasn’t any sense in denying it after the night his sister-in-law had almost died. It had been clear to his wife then that something was the matter with him. And like his brothers, she was disgusted by his obsession.
He had heard her sorrowful tears when he’d approached her bedroom door later that same day. And without another thought, he’d left the townhouse. She didn’t want him anymore. And that truth, that wretched truth, twisted his innards with a pain that took his breath away.<
br />
“You wanted her indifference, fool,” he abased himself. “And you have it.”
The capsules in his palm grew heavy. His hand trembled. He hadn’t taken opium in days, allowing the night terrors to torture him. But his muscles now cramped in hunger for the drug. And he had no reason to resist their ravenous demand.
The cabin door opened.
“Get out,” he snarled without averting his eyes from the opium. There were a handful of tars aboard ship, guarding the vessel while she was anchored in port.
“But, sir?”
“Out!” he stormed.
“That’s all right, Thomas,” said a feminine voice. “Thank you for escorting me.”
Quincy reared his head as Holly entered the cabin carrying a lamp and carpetbag She set down her luggage and closed the door, turning the key in the lock. To his greater astonishment, she then removed the key and wedged it between her breasts, imprisoning him.
“It’s much too dark in here,” she groused and bustled around the room, lighting the other lamps. “There.”
The room aglow, she pivoted and spotted the pile of capsules in his palm. Her eyes widened. “What are you doing?”
She smacked his hand, scattering the drug, and crushed the opium beneath her heels.
“Were you going to take those?” She pointed at the floor. “All of those?”
She slapped him across the face.
“Blimey!” he roared, finally finding his voice. “What the devil was that for?”
“For even thinking of leaving me!”
He sucked in a desperate breath, his mind buzzing with myriad thoughts. What was she doing here? Had something happened at home?
“What’s the matter?” he demanded.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Is it Emma? Is she all right?”
Holly sighed. “Emma is fine. She is under your sister’s care.”
As he massaged his smarting cheek, Quincy narrowed his eyes on the woman. He couldn’t fathom the reason for her being aboard ship. Or for her outburst. As if she . . .
His heart jerked at the thought that she cared for him, and he squelched the fanciful idea before it took root in his already battered soul.
“Then why are you here?” he asked, voice taut, muscles even tauter.
“I can’t visit my husband?”
“Do not lie to me, Holly.” He glanced at her carpetbag. Why would she come to “visit” him in the dead of night? “What’s wrong?”
Holly stepped toward the porthole and peered through the glass. “I came to tell you I understand how you feel.”
Quincy looked away from her. He rubbed his hands together, mulling over her inexplicable remark. Soon he heard her loud, rasping breaths. Was she weeping?
He glanced at her askance. Her shoulders quivered. Something had obviously grieved her. But why had she come to him? For comfort? He usually sensed a woman’s desire without trouble, but this time . . .
“Why are you here?” he wondered once more.
“To keep you safe,” she whispered.
His heart pounded again, and that damn fanciful longing struggled to root itself in his soul. “Do I need safe keeping?”
“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “You are a danger to yourself, Quincy. And it’s my duty to protect you.”
“Your duty?”
“I made a vow.” She wiped her tears and confronted him, her eyes still glassy. “For better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health. And I intend to keep my word.”
Her demeanor had changed. She carried something heavy upon her shoulders. And whatever it was, it had turned her world upside-down. That much he sensed without misgiving.
“You and I do not have a real marriage, Holly. I wed you to save your reputation.”
“I know,” she returned softly.
“Then why are you here?”
“I’ve decided not to give up on you.”
His thoughts churned in even greater confusion. Why did she give him a different answer each time he asked her the same simple question: why are you here? Was it possible all three answers were true?
Holly treaded across the room and grabbed her carpetbag. She carried it over to the desk and unpacked a few of her belongings.
“You had best get comfortable,” she said. “You and I are going to stay in this cabin for a long while.”
Slowly he stood, his muscles still aching for opium, his body breaking into a cold sweat. “And if I want out of this room?”
“You won’t search for the key. We both know you vowed never to touch me.”
“I vowed never to bed you.”
She waved a dismissive hand. “That’s neither here nor there.”
Quincy headed for the door.
She dashed toward it, too, barricading it with her body. “If you want out of this cabin, you’ll have to go through me.”
The steely look in her eyes told him she was adamant.
He curled his fingers into fists. He need only shove her aside and kick down the wood. He had the strength to do it . . . but the thought of putting his hands on her in any rough manner made him ill.
He backed away from her, his heart hammering. “I can’t stay here forever.”
“I should hope not.”
“Damn it, I can’t live without—”
“Opium, yes, I remember. Well, I also know the opiates don’t help you anymore since you continue to have night terrors.” She stepped away from the door and approached him. “You cannot resist the temptation of opium, I understand, so I will keep the temptation from you.”
Take away the temptation of opium and replace it with the temptation of her?
“You’re mad,” he said bluntly.
She squared her shoulders, affronted. “I want to help you, Quincy.”
“Then leave me be, wench.”
“No.”
Her decisive “no” stabbed deeper than a knife.
He was trapped.
CHAPTER 19
When Holly opened her tired eyes, she was alone in the bed. Scanning the cabin in the morning light, she quickly realized she was also alone in the room.
“Bloody hell.” She scrambled to her feet and groped between her breasts, searching for the key. “That pirate!”
Holly rushed from the room. For two weeks she’d nursed the blackguard through the pangs of insatiable cravings, bouts of irritability, cold then hot sweats, retchings and tremors—and he dared to escape now.
She’d wring his miserable neck, she would. She had suffered right alongside him, every dreadful moment. And on more than one occasion, she’d even feared he might truly perish during a convulsion, that perhaps he really couldn’t live without opium. But each attack on his body had lessened in severity with time, and soon there were fewer and fewer attacks.
For much of his confinement, Quincy hadn’t even noticed her presence. If he wasn’t in a dead sleep, he was groaning in agony. She would often curl up beside him on the bed, when he’d collapsed in fatigue, her own bones aching for rest.
Holly scaled the hatch in her bare feet and stepped onto the deck. How could he sneak away in such a cowardly manner after all she’d done for—?
Her tirade of thoughts came to an abrupt end when she noticed her husband standing at the stern of the ship, gazing out at the Thames.
Her cheeks warmed as she recalled her scathing rebukes of him, and after a few measured breaths, she calmed her raging heart.
Approaching his tall figure, she settled beside him.
“I needed air,” he said in a flat vein, clearly guessing her thoughts. He handed her the cabin key. “I didn’t want to wake you.”
She took the key from him, rubbing the metal between her fingers. “How do you feel?”
“Like shit.”
Quincy turned his deep blue eyes toward her, and though they were bloodshot, and his voice was hoarse and surly, she knew he would be all right, really all right, because for the first time in two we
eks he saw her.
“You look tired,” he murmured.
A light wind ruffled her already tousled hair, and she brushed the stray tresses behind her ear. “I look like a fright.”
“No.” He thumbed her check. “You look like a siren from the sea.”
She shuddered under his gentle caress and heady words, her skin tingling with gooseflesh. She had longed for his tender touch, his intimate endearments, and she closed her eyes, pressing her cheek into his warm palm, sighing with pleasure as he stroked her jaw . . . her lips.
Her breath hitched. He thumbed her mouth in light yet sensual sweeps, and her heart pounded again.
Her lashes fluttered. She met his smoldering stare. He reached for her. She parted her lips . . . but he pulled her into his arms.
Holly sighed again. Not in disappointment, though. The man’s strong embrace comforted her as much as his healing kiss, and she clinched his waist in return, laying her cheek over his strapping chest. At the sound of his thundering heart, her relief intensified.
I didn’t lose you.
A sob welled in her throat, the anxiety she’d suppressed for the last two weeks now bursting in her breast. She hugged him even harder, and he smothered the crown of her head with his mouth, soothing her in a hushed tone.
“How can you heal others, but not yourself?” she wondered when her nerves stilled and her fears faded away.
“I don’t know.” A pause, then, “I still have night terrors.”
“And you’ll have to face them without the opium.”
“How is that better?”
She looked up at him, connected with his troubled gaze. “Because now you’ll face them with me at your side.”
His uneasy expression softened. “With you?”
“Aye.”
Grazing her spine with his fingertips, he rubbed the length of her backside over and over until her blood swelled with want and heat.
“Why don’t you go below and rest?” he whispered in a throaty voice.
“I don’t want to leave your side. I’m so thankful I didn’t lose you, too.”
“Too?” His eyes widened. “Emma . . . ?”
“Emma is fine,” she swiftly assured him. “Mirabelle sends word of her progress every day. She’s already up and about, taking strolls through the garden.” She hesitated. “I meant my father.”
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